Champagne (Mycroft x Reader)
by Maximumus
Summary: You've been dating Mycroft Holmes for three months now, a strange and tenuous relationship, to be sure. But now you've been craving something a bit more... (My first lemon, reader insert.)


Only candles flicker as you stumble into the bedroom, your heels just a little bit too high for the night's champagne. Beyond the window is a sparkling view of London. You sway before it for a moment as he walks into the room behind you. You glance over your shoulder and catch eye contact, a wicked smile curling across your face, then stride over and yank the curtains shut.

He's blathering on, complimenting you, as always—"The gala was a waste of time, but, a charming waste of time at that—as always, a pleasure to see you in your dress; you looked ravishing, and of course, all eyes were on you, though I kept experiencing the impulse to reach over and put you in a sweater to keep you from all of those gazes—"

"It was a view for you." In seconds you are pressed against him, looking up at his surprised face and dragging your nails through the light stubble on his cheeks. You take the bottom of his earlobe in your mouth and suck lightly. He makes a little noise like a mewling cat and reaches for your wrist, but you place a light finger on his lips.

"Mycroft." You stroke his wrist, slowly. "Let's take this to the bed."

His champagne is forgotten in its glass. "My dear… dear, you know that's not necess—"

"Shhh." Your hands wander down his chest, slide down his sides, tug at the waistband of his pants. He swallows. "Give me our first night together, Mr. Holmes. I'm ready for you, so let's let go. _Please_ take me, Mycroft, come on, please. Take me."

He blushes deeply, taking a step back and bumping into the bed, upon which he abruptly sits. "That's—are—are you sure?"

You sit on his lap, pressing your lips to his ear, leaving smears of red lipstick. Mycroft grunts beneath your weight, and you begin to rock back and forth on him, feeling the wetness in your underwear, heat pooling down where you want it, where you want him to be, _now._

"You're sure?" he asks, touching the side of your face and forcing you to stop, to look into his gray-blue eyes.

"Why, Mycroft, I've never seen you like this," you say softly, touching your forehead to his.

"I do not want you to feel—obliged, or—"

You press a kiss to his forehead and pop his pants button open.

You've had sex before, of course, but it's not about the sex, but the enjoyment of it. You find yourself panting like a schoolgirl, dress hiked up to your waist and plastered to his lap, squeezing yourself against his hardness with your legs wrapped around his hips, as if he's the only water in the desert. He buries his head into your shoulder and hikes you up around him, groaning. Your hands fumble at his crotch, finding the bulge in his pants, delving in, wrapping your hands around his cock. You give it a jerk. His breath hitches, hands squeezing your ass involuntarily.

"Mycroft," you gasp. "Please—"

In instants, your dress is coming off over your head, his hands running up the sides of your body; you throw it to the side, and his fingers find your bra strap. You gasp at the cool air on your breasts, and shiver at the way he fondles them, intimate and needing, but soft, and trusting. You lean up against him, pressing your chest to his face with a moan that abruptly turns to a yelp as his hand rubs your underwear.

"Eager," comes his ragged voice, surprised at the wetness he finds. You groan—_"Mmm, please, yes"_—and his fingers stroke you, slowly, far too slowly, unsure. He doesn't understand how much you need him to plunge into you, to make you come screaming, to feel him mounting you, disappearing into your folds.

You jerk back, breathing heavily, and grab at your underwear, pulling them down, throwing off the shoes; his fingers are at the buttons of his shirt, but slowly, too _slow!_ You rip open the front, drag your nails down his chest.

He pulls back, holds you off. "Darling, it's—it's been awhile, since I've been to bed," he says in a low voice, eyes raking your body with hunger, yes, but a touch of fear. "I'm afraid that my performance—"

"_Mycroft_!" You're shocked at what you hear. "Mycroft Holmes, you're gorgeous, and I need you. I need you right now. I _want_ you. I love you!"

The last sentence comes out quickly, unthinkingly. Your heart skips a beat. You start to back up, feet bare—_oh God, God, I've ruined it—_but suddenly he's crossed the room and hastily closed the door. and you're standing very close. Your nipples brush his chest; your ass is against the door.

His hands rest on your hips, ever so gently. "You love me?"

"I love you."

His eyes crinkle, and when he speaks, it's slow and quiet. "And I you."

His hands begin to trail inward, to your inner thighs. You squirm beneath him and gasp, speaking very fast.

"What are you doing?"

"Shh. I am… letting loose. Perhaps these fingers which so easily play the violin can likewise play you."

You tremor.

His finger strokes up to your pussy, and your breathing stops as he brushes the intimate inner folds of your vagina.

"Oh my God."

You grip his shoulders as he slowly—_slowly!_—presses his fingers into you, you're soaking, sensations are flooding you, you're soaking wet and dripping and you keep letting out little breaths as he fingers you, one finger, two; encouraged by your response, he thrusts a little more quickly, a little more sharply, but not enough—those long, long fingers!

You beg him, please, more quickly, and suddenly three fingers are within you. You beg and moan, grinding your hips down, trying to get deeper, harder, more pressure. Wetness rolls down your legs.

You're weak in the knees, but he doesn't stop. The Ice Man is relentless. Perhaps it is how long you have wanted him, or perhaps his motions were boldened by your cries, but every sensation kills you. In out, thrust, stroke. You're completely naked before his touch, and he stands before you, fully dressed but for an open shirt. You're helpless and can do nothing but submit to him—the rolling, riding plunges, so much build up but not enough release.

Suddenly, he crooks his fingers and bends them inside you, and your knees nearly give out. You clutch him around the neck, maybe deafening him with the noise that escapes.

He grunts, obviously having difficulty with his own want of you. "You're… you're… my, you're eager…"

You bite his neck, gently, and grip his neck, and whisper. "_Pleeease._"

It is enough persuading.

You jump up, wrapping around him and feeling the throbbing and the heat in his pants. He supports you by grabbing your ass. For a moment, he stumbles—not getting any younger—but suddenly you're falling onto the bed, Mycroft Holmes atop you, ripping at his pants; you tear off his shirt. He runs his hands down the side, the bottoms of your breasts. You grope blindly for the condom on the bedstand (you put it there a few days prior, hint, hint), rip open the top, and grab his hard member. He grunts and rolls your hips as you roll it on, squeezing out the air bubbles, stroke the bottom of it once for the fun.

He is erect and ready, and you grab onto his back, trying to find some handhold, something to grab, before you pull back your legs to let him in, and in he goes.

You cry out—"Oh, yes, _God!_"—as he enters, he's fully inside, he's moaning, in and out, in and out; you draw blood with your nails and throw back your head; his cock is so hard, and God, you've been waiting for this for so long, for Mycroft, for Mycroft, for Mycroft, your _love, _and your bottom half is on fire. He pushes up your legs for a better entrance, exposing you to him, so naked, swollen, needy, pushing with all the strength he can muster; you scream with the pleasure and the pain of it, because like him, you haven't been to the rough and tumble for awhile, but God, you want the pain, you want the roughness, you want his cock passionate and intense.

Then, all of a sudden, sweet ecstasy. You tense around him, screaming out, clenching your muscles around his throbbing cock, screaming out as he takes your nipple in his mouth, and begging, "Mycroft… Mycroft, don't stop… don't stop… God!" Your back arches, scraping his back, bucking, releasing. Your shrieks bring his hands beneath your back, pushing your hips up, grinding into his; he wants better _leverage!_ And after a few more thrusts—Mycroft cries out, then falls onto the bed, making sure his head hits the pillow beside yours so you're not completely smothered.

You both breathe heavily, shaking, for awhile, him atop you, you quivering. Then he takes a ragged breath and rolls completely off. Still not completely back in control of your motor functions, you shift over and lay naked against his chest. His hand comes up to your stomach, strokes up between your breasts, lovingly touches the side of your face. He's still damp from being inside you.

It makes you pulse again.

"Not a bad lover," you whisper, lips to his cheek, brushing kisses down his jawline.

"I'd forgotten how pleasant that could be," he whispers back. It's all whispers and darkness, a shared secret, tenderness and pleasure.

"I'm glad we've done this together."

His hand tucks hair behind your ear. "Now _I've _never seen you like this."

"I'm just happy."

"Happy that I'll have marks all down my back?"

"Happy that I won't be able to stand in the morning!"

The two of you lay there for many long moments, your leg hooked between his, bodies so intimately and trustingly intertwined, sweet caresses and gentleness and the warmth of a lover's arms. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and you can see the door where he pinned you, trailed his fingers against you, thrust up inside of you with his hands… ooh. You shiver.

You kiss him long and lingering on the lips, letting his hand rest on the back of his neck.

Then you move.

"What are you doing?"

This time it's him who's asking. You slither from his grasp, down to the edge of the bed. "Shhhh."

You run your hands along his bare hips, trace down along the top of his thighs, trailing kisses are you go. He brings a hand to up to brush along your face—and then you wander to the inside of his thighs, kissing to the top of his crotch. He grips your hip tightly as you reach his cock.

His speaking is more labored now. "What are—you _doing?_"

"Nothing," you lie, running your finger down his shaft. He shivers. "Relax. You'll like this."

His fists bunch up in the sheets.

For a moment you wait, leaving him with torturous nothing, lightly skimming your hand up, down, but not squeezing. But it isn't long before you glance up through your eyelashes at the man, who is taking shallow breaths, and lick your lips. You grip his shaft and give it a squeeze.

Oh, he's hard now.

You peel off the condom and slide your hand toward the tip, then the shaft, repeating the motion, up and down and up and down and watching his face the whole time. He closes his eyes as you pick up the pace, moving your hand faster and faster. He's gripping you hard enough to bruise, letting out soft grunts, until finally he leans his head back and begins to pant. You abruptly stop your movements.

"You're…" he says—then his eyes widen as he sees you dropping your head to his crotch. "M-my dear, y-you…" he stutters, then inhales sharply.

You bend and teasingly take his head in your mouth.

He moans out your name involuntarily, "darling, darling, _oh_", unable to get a coherent sentence out with your full, lipsticked lips wrapped around the full throbbing length of his cock. You trail it with your tongue, sucking, licking, lovely fingers wrapped around his sensitive flesh until he gives a reflexive jerk of the hips, failing to repress the bucking that shivers down his spine, pushing his cock deeper into your hot, wet mouth. You smile into him, teasing with your tongue the underside of his cock, rewarded with a hoarse moan, tight in his throat, twitching lightly in your mouth. Dragging your tongue along his shaft, you lift your hand and pump the top. His rigid cock is coated in the glistening sheen of your warm saliva.

You make use of the tongue, one moment swirling around the tip, then dragging up the base. You stroke, twist your wrist around him, grip his hips and rake down his thighs. He won't last long. His fingers knot up in your hair, and there he goes—yelling out your name, gasping it much like a prayer. His body arches up and grips the sheets helplessly.

You lift your head for a split second. "I want to see you fall apart."

That does it. His fingers knot up in your hair, and there he goes—yelling out your name, gasping it much like a prayer. His body arches up and grips the sheets helplessly, and he erupts, orgasms, coating your hand with cum from the tip of his cock, his cheeks flushed, his eyes cloudy with pleasure, groaning, moaning, your words leaving him in a breathless pant.

You suck his tip one last time and move back up his body, hugging him, breasts pressing against his body, then curling up against his chest. His arms welcome you in, and you lean in for a kiss on the lips, then, thinking better of it, pecking the tip of his nose. You look at his face, relaxed and slack with pleasure. He is actually trembling a bit. You've wanted to lay against him like this, both of you naked and happy and together, for so long, that you can only smile.

"Feel better?" you whisper.

He chuckles weakly. "Much better." He leans his forehead against yours. "Thank you. I… I really do appreciate that."

You snuggle in. "Any time, Mr. Holmes."

His hand strokes your hair. "Perhaps we should get showered up."

"Oh, not yet," you groan, leaning your head back and letting him caress you. "I don't want to go."

"I didn't say you had to go, my dear."

You lift your head, confused.

"I simply said we should shower."

A deliciously naughty look comes across his face, and you smile.


End file.
